Memory
by MindBottled
Summary: Time erodes all sins, until we are left with nothing but memories; those too, will fade.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything from Sleepy Hollow. Those rights belong to Fox and all of the affiliated writers.

 **Author's Note:** One-shot! I have been trying to work on this for ages, but a few of the scenes were a bit a challenging to write. As always, enjoy!

 **Pairing:** Andy/Abbie, mentionings of Luke/Abbie, and a slight bit of subtext of Ichabod/Abbie

* * *

The Lieutenant catches him off guard one morning by thrusting a cup of Starbucks into his hand.

"Take a break Andy, you look like hell." And with that, she marches back to her partner's office, her prim ponytail swaying behind her.

He stares at the cup in his hand, looking at the emerald mermaid as if it might leap off of the paper and devour him whole. But it's a silly, inane little thought, one that he doesn't have time for, not if he wants to keep his head.

Instead, he takes a gulp of its contents and continues writing up his report, grateful for the caffeine flooding through his veins.

 **XxX**

"You really need to be more careful." She clucks out, her fingers deftly rolling a gauze bandage around his arm, dots of crimson marring the snowy fabric.

It had been an accident.

Andy grits his teeth to prevent those exact words from leaving his lips. Accidents carry a high price in their line of work, a speech he has heard over and over again, until it is practically batting against his skull. He doesn't need it rehashed by anyone, especially not her.

"We still got the guy, didn't we?" He finally manages, trying his best to sound enthusiastic even if his shoulder is stinging like hell; of all the days to make a stupid, rookie mistake.

Abbie pauses at the thought, fingers still firmly grasping onto the bandage, holding it tightly in place; even now, she's strictly by the book, through and through. He doesn't mind though; after all, he's used to holding up his own masks.

"I guess that's true." She finally says, tucking the end of the bandage in before getting up, wiping the dust off of her knees.

She bites her lip, her brow furrowing as she looks off in the distance, before shrugging her shoulders, as if thinking better of something.

"Next time, just try not to take a shoulder full of cement, huh?" The edges of her lips quirk up slightly and instantly her expression morphs, all the rigid lines that seem to haunt her replaced with a soft, teasing warmth.

She extends a hand down towards him and as his hand encircles her wrist, he swears he can almost feel a spark.

 **XxX**

"So what made you choose this line of work?" He asks one day, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the scanner's dial, pretending to hone in on some long forgotten call.

Abbie looks at him out of the corner of her eye, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as she makes a tight left, heading away from the main street and towards the old country roads, where dandelions burst through the cracked asphalt and pot holes litter the path.

She says nothing, though she glances at the edges of the woods every now and then, as if waiting for something to collide with them; it would be so easy to pretend she's just wary of some stray, bumbling fawn losing its way.

They both know better.

"I could ask you the same thing." She finally says, her voice sharp as she makes a wide turn at the remains of a crumbling barn house, before looping onto another road.

"Well, you know the old saying, a leopard can't change its spots?"

She glances into the mirror, her dark eyes catching his own, curiosity simmering just beneath the surface.

"Yeah, why?"

"I'm hoping to prove that it's not true."

The car becomes eerily silent, save for the stagnant crackle of white noise drifting in from the receiver; when she goes to flick it off, her fingertips skirt over his own.

"Me too."

 **XxX**

The hours of their shift are dwindling down to minutes when she abruptly stalls the car, flashing him a mischievous grin as she swings open her door and leaps onto the hood of the vehicle, her next words goading him into chasing her.

"It's okay to live a little Andy."

After he awkwardly clambers onto the roof, Abbie offers him her thermos with the promise that her coffee is much better than the tar currently being served at the diner; his fingers itch to touch hers as he gratefully accepts the beverage, the warmth keeping the icy tendrils of winter at bay.

She stretches, burrowing deeper into her woolen jacket when the cool metal touches her skin and lets out a soft sigh, staring wistfully up at the moon. Against his better judgment, he drops his guard, allowing his tense form to sag into hers.

Their breath comes out in a frosty shimmer, wisps of smoke rising against the shadows, before dissolving into the night; he wonders if their fate is similar.

"Do you ever wish we could go back?" His voice seems distant now, his eyes lost in the skies, charting out a lifetime of mistakes and wasted chances.

Abbie stiffens against him.

"Back? To what?" She asks, the words dull and hard, yet somehow, they're still sharp enough to bite.

Their past is always a sensitive subject to broach; most memories are best left forgotten, while others refuse to be swept away. He shouldn't glorify their history any more than he already has, shouldn't reminisce over any what-could-have-beens, because in the end, all he's left with is cold, stark reality.

The truth does little to stop the yearning though.

"Just back… when things were simpler." Andy finishes quietly, canting his head away from the heavens and towards the darkness below.

She draws away and leans forward, resting her arms on her knees, her face shrouded beneath a curtain of ebony.

"Have things ever been simple Andy?"

 **XxX**

Coming here had been a mistake.

The thought dances across Andy's mind as he takes another sip of wine, the merlot stale, bits of cork floating to the surface. It's obvious that this evening has been haphazardly thrown together, if the refrigerated wine is anything to go by.

Besides, another new detective really isn't much to celebrate in his books.

He takes another sip as he watches the others mingle, each whispering amongst one another about the newest recruit, giddy and glowing with alcohol. If you give half the precinct even the slightest reason to celebrate, they'll all jump at the chance, corkscrews and mixtapes in hand.

The door cracks open, flurries of snow signifying a new guest, momentarily distracting him from the pitiful display of his coworkers.

Abbie's cheeks are flushed with cold as she stomps the snow off of her boots, tossing her coat onto the ever growing pile by the door; when she catches his eye, she smiles, threading her way through the crowd towards him.

"Did I miss anything?" She asks as she perches herself precariously on the arm of his chair, taking the red plastic cup he offers her with a skeptical eye, a warm smile slipping into place once she takes a sip.

"Not really." He hums, drumming his fingers along his thigh, a futile attempt to distract himself from her knee, which is currently knocking against his.

They sit in silence, watching the other guests filter in and out, each keenly aware of the other's prescience. The right words seem to elude him, tension knotting itself tightly around his throat; she says nothing, but offers him an encouraging smile from time to time.

The clock hand is halfway past eleven when the door slams open.

All eyes turn towards the male, who only replies with a craggy, winsome grin before making his way over to the kitchen, popping the lid off of a bottle of beer with ease.

"That must be him." She points at the new arrival, who is currently recanting tales of heroics and theatrics to anyone willing to listen; when 'detective' Morales catches them looking, he flashes her a wink.

"Awfully confident, isn't he?" She snickers into his ear, her breath cloyingly sweet with the scent of sugar and gin.

Andy nods but notices the way her gaze seems to smolder anytime he comes near her, lingering there for some time afterwards.

 **XxX**

It's been months since that fateful evening.

Andy's content to bury himself in his work, away from nestling lovebirds and emotions that are too saccharine for him to waste the time or energy to decipher. He has a job to do and sometimes, happiness is the cost for performance.

He only wishes the price wasn't so steep.

He looks up from the report he's been drawing up, a simple misdemeanor for disorderly conduct, his eyes wandering until they reach her cubicle. Abbie's hunched over her desk, strands of onyx playfully dancing across her cheeks as she flips the page of her case study, letting out a huff as she stubbornly pushes them away only for them to fall back into place.

He fidgets with his collar, releasing a button or two, only so he won't feel like he's suffocating.

As much as he tries to rationalize his feelings, to seclude himself away from emotions that have hounded him for years, he knows he'll never be able to. Something about her has a way of drawing him in, like a moth chasing after a flame; in the end, he'll pay for such careless devotion, but oh, how bright the embers shine…

When she glances up from her work, his heart skitters to a halt, apprehension writhing like serpents in the pit of his stomach. He hasn't spoken to her in weeks, a lie always poised on the tip of his tongue, another denial only a breath away.

It takes him a few moments to realize she isn't looking at him.

Abbie's gaze trails past him, her eyes darkening when she catches sight of another detective who is currently engaging the desk clerk in a battle of wits. Morales turns his head when the pretty blonde bursts into a fit of giggles, the corner of his lips twisting up into a smirk when he catches sight of Abbie; she blinks, snapping the folder shut before stalking off towards the break room.

It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.

Andy barrels down the hallway, not caring about who or what he collides into, his sole focus cast on Abbie. When he reaches her, she's safely tucked away near the coffee machine, shielded from any prying eyes, gripping the counter so tightly her fingers are trembling. And for once, he doesn't think, he just acts; he wraps his arms around her shoulders, ignoring her dissuasion as he buries his face into the crook of her neck.

"It's okay Abbie."

And though she never mentions this incident again, she doesn't push him away.

 **XxX**

Two weeks later and the facade of normalcy he's spent years building up crumbles, the radio static crackling against the debris.

His fingers shake as he flicks the dial off, a sharp whine piercing through the car before it dies away, the silence haunting. A cold sweat begins to bead up on Andy's forehead, his mind swimming with a mixture of adrenaline and dread as he slams his foot on the pedal, haphazardly speeding down the streets.

He's spent years preparing for this exact moment, for the day he'd finally have to pay for the sins of his past; a slight, hysteric giggle bubbles up from his chest, the irony of his current circumstances not lost on him.

She's still here.

Abbie Mills is still in Sleepy Hollow, possibly trapped in battle with the very embodiment of Death itself, and there's little he can do to change the fact at this point. And the grand kicker of this little plot is, he's the one who sent the Horseman to the cemetery in the first place.

The light flashes red, the low hanging streetlights blinking eerily in the night as Andy slams to a halt, trained instinct overriding impulse.

There's no time to try and reason with the lost Hessian, he knows that. The hound has smelt blood, and nothing will stop him from reclaiming his stolen head, because really, what does Death have to fear?

Any hope he has left of saving Abbie lies beyond the scope of reasoning, of silver tongues and dead languages.

Action has never been his forte, logic and wiles dictating most of his existence. Brute force, while necessary for certain aspects of his job, often proves to be reckless and more trouble than it's generally worth.

But, if anything, if _anyone_ is worth the risk, it's her.

His foot slams down on the pedal, a curtain of scarlet illuminating his features as he zooms past the intersection, the light blinking green in the rearview mirror. The cemetery looms over the horizon, flashes of gunpowder sparking to life, each bursting like a star in the sky.

No matter what happens, he _will_ save her.

 **XxX**

In hindsight, perhaps attempting to kidnap a fully trained officer hadn't been the most well laid-out of strategies.

Andy drums his fingers along the metal bench, listening to the quiet staccato that echoes along the borders of his cell and closes his eyes, his shoulders tensing as he runs a hand over his brow. Of all the times he could have failed, why did it have to be now?

So much had been riding on his success…

The smell of earth and ozone fills the chamber, energy humming through the air as the dim lights flicker on and off in chaotic cessation, the metal coverings trembling. Instantly, his eyes flash open, cold tremors running down his spine as he jolts to his feet, a wave of nausea rolling over him.

Not now.

The walls seem to distort, passages widening and narrowing, all leading him down the same road, the beast howling in his veins. Ancient curses fill his ears as he walks toward the sink, his eyes glued to the mirror, his jaw settling in with grim determination; there's nothing he can do to escape it now.

When he sees the shadow appear, fears runs icy through his veins, though he refuses to look away; he's spent too many years running away from demons and broken pacts.

A sickening crack fills the air as Abbie enters the cell, a startled gasp emerging from her lips when she sees him, his eyes rolling up to greet her own. The next few hours go by in a blur, Irving's voice breaking through the fugue as the coroner wheels Andy off to the morgue, drawing up the final paperwork on detective Brooks' short life.

But it is far from the end.

 **XxX**

As a general rule, the most jarring part of waking up on a gurney is the realization of what it implies.

Or at least, that should have been the worst part; snapping your own neck back into place might just have it beat, though. Andy runs a hand self-consciously over the folds that riddle his throat, wincing when his finger catches on a piece of fragmented of bone.

If he wasn't a looker before, he sure as hell doesn't stand a chance now.

He can already hear the voices pounding in the back of his head, each another spirit vying for his attention; he rolls his shoulders, tuning all of them out, save one, visions of pale horns swimming through his mind, hissing orders in his ears.

He knows why he's been brought back, or at least, he thinks he understands the gist of it. That's the thing with demons; each operates with their own set of motives and principles, never caring to divulge more than necessary.

Why pay for the risk when you hold all the cards?

He slides off the metal slab, eying the various instruments on a nearby tray warily; memories of his high school biology class flash by, laced with formaldehyde and anxiety. A small incision at first, then the knife deepens, keeping a steady hand as the flesh is wrenched open….

He runs a shaky hand through his hair and wills himself not to think of the possible outcomes; the thought of being dissected is disconcerting.

Carefully prying open the door, he makes his way down the hall, he bare feet slapping against the linoleum as he brushes past his former colleagues. None of them even blink an eye as he passes by, each blissfully unaware of the subtle shift in the air or the murky scent of earth that lingers after him.

After all, who could miss a dead man?

 **XxX**

The witch is sloppy.

The smell of ash is heavy in the air as he rounds the entrance of the tunnels, the lingering stench of magick not far behind. In her haste for vengeance, she's become careless; he doubts she even realizes how close the Witnesses are to discovering her remains.

Perhaps she simply doesn't care.

His ears prick up as the silence shifts, broken by muffled footsteps. The soft clattering of leather grows louder with every step he takes, his tempo picking up speed until he draws closer, whispers of honeysuckle tickling his nose.

The young lieutenant is by herself, creeping down the corridor, eyes wide and alert. Upon seeing her, his chest rises and falls, a force of habit rather than necessity; his lungs have long since fallen into an irreparable state of decay.

Abbie moves precisely, drawing out each movement in a methodical pattern, pledging each step to memory.

Andy can already see a plan forming in her mind, as she calculates every angle and trajectory of attack, ready to make the killing strike without a moment's notice. She's still following the rules, even now, witches and horsemen be damned.

It's almost funny how little has changed since his death.

She pauses, fingers trembling on the trigger, the tips of her hair skirting against the damp stone as she whirls around; he can almost see the relief sag over her features when she finds nothing lurking behind her, not even the dead man standing before her.

Because unlike a gilded badge, magic always gives you the upperhand; it allows you to cheat.

 **XxX**

He meets her in the tunnels again, only this time, she's ready for him.

Abbie lets instinct take over as she draws back, her knuckles deftly colliding with his jaw, a sickening squelch echoing throughout the tunnels; he lets out a hiss of pain and the illusion is lost, his mind reeling as he staggers away. She draws her weapon and turns, her hands trembling when she catches sight of him.

"Brooks?"

With a grimace, he clenches his teeth and realigns his jaw, bones and sinew grinding together as they slide back into place. His gaze trails over to her and a flickering smile passes his lips when she moves away, blinking rapidly, her breathing growing tense and heavy.

Abbie Mills has just seen a ghost.

Her fear is short-lived however, and she quickly rounds on him with her questions, though she keeps her gaze tactfully trained from his rotting flesh; whether it's from disgust or courtesy, he remains uncertain. He tries to answer her as best he can but suspicion flares into her steely irises; he knows his sudden… state brokers little trust.

"I care about you Abbie." He finally manages, and something inside him recoils when she blanches, her vision wandering until it lands on his hand.

He was never good enough for her in life, why should it be any different in death? A rotting corpse is hardly anyone's idea of prince charming.

Abbie regards him silently, her eyes sliding over him, taking in all the cobbled pieces that hold him together, before something in her gaze softens. Her lips waver as if she's going to speak, before she hardens, thinking better of it; even now, she keeps her emotions hidden, even from him.

"Leftenant Mills!"

Another voice echoes down the tunnels and she looks up, her eyes landing firmly on the figure as he prattles on, stopping only once he notices him.

Ichabod Crane does not bother to hide his distaste when he sees him; no doubt, he finds his very presence an effrontery to his _noble_ sensibilities. Andy narrows his eyes at him, delivering him scorn for scorn; it seems one's own sins matter very little when juxtaposed against another's.

His hubris will be the death of them.

 **XxX**

Something is… off.

The thought floods through his mind until it drowns out everything else as he rushes down the corridors; something, or more likely someone, has triggered his warning magic. When he wheels about the corner, he spies the intruder, hunched over and rifling through his artifacts.

"Don't touch that!" He hisses as he lunges towards Ichabod; the colonial man swiftly steps to the side and he flails, his cheeks glowing with anger as he braces himself against the cold stone.

He looks up, fully expecting to hear some sardonic comment about the state of his affairs and feeling derision preemptively well up within him, when he catches sight of another figure, cloaked in shadow. The darkness around her melts away as she steps toward them, shades of fluorescent and moonlight illuminating her features

Abbie moves to her partner's side, her hand resting on the worn fabric of his coat as if to stay him, looking at Andy peculiarly, as if she's seeing him for the first time.

"Abbie…" He breathes, and all the hatred rushes out of him, replaced with the aching gnaw of longing.

She holds his gaze for a moment longer, nodding slightly as she turns back to the colonial man, questions pouring from her lips, though he swears her voice is only a murmur.

Ichabod twirls the stone in his hands as he speaks with her, fingers tracing down the ancient runes and Andy jolts, suddenly remembering himself. A cold chill runs down his spine as the Witnesses examine the stone with more scrutiny and he steps away, eager to flee deeper into the tunnels; perhaps if he is quick enough, he will have no need for cunning or lies…

"You're his necromancer!" Ichabod announces proudly, recognition dawning in those glacial orbs and Andy winces, cursing the man's memory of the occult.

Abbie's eyes light up as she turns to him, hope glimmering in the cool depths of her irises; he can already hear the gears of her mind whirling, a plot thickening as her lips spread out into a slow smile.

She steps forward, and he resists the urge to shrink back; the only thing that halts him is her hand against his.

Her touch is gentle as she explores the holes that riddle his skin, her fingers curling against his, and something inside him warms, the sensation soft and bittersweet. He wants to cling to her and whisper all his sins, all the things he's done to protect her, all the things he'd do again if it keeps her safe.

But he knows it would be a wasted breath.

Abbie has always been ruthless when pursuing a lead, and what is he, if not her biggest one? She's pulling his strings, parading him along until she gets what she wants, only to cut the cords after; he pinches his lips together with a sigh, and meets her gaze.

"Please don't make me do this, Abbie." He begs, and she drops his hand as quickly as if it has burnt her, all traces of kindness fleeing from her eyes.

His hand still aches for her touch as she stares him down, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring, though the tone in her voice isn't one of fury. She's frustrated with him, he realizes, as he tries to dismiss her cries for assistance; she's does not yet know the consequences of what she asks of him.

If she did, she would never…

"Please..."

Something in her voice breaks and she looks up at him, her eyes wavering, and he is at a loss.

He nods his head and is quietly led away from the tunnels and towards the chamber interred beneath the heart of the city, eying the ancient runes that litter the walls with little curiosity. No matter what the wards mean to protect, the outcome will still be the same.

The sigil weighs heavy in his stomach as he steps into the cloistered chamber, his eyes darkening over with grief.

 **XxX**

Trepidation runs through him as he enters Abbie's apartment, his thoughts wild and frantic as the door slides in place behind him.

The sound of her chopping fills his ears, the knife colliding with the cutting board in a steady tempo, never once missing a beat. Before he can take another step, she advances upon him, the edge of blade barely inches away from his heart.

"Hi Abbie." He grins weakly as she narrows her eyes at him, keeping a steady grip of her weapon.

"We really need to talk about boundaries." Sarcasm darkens the edges of her voice as she keeps him pinned there for a moment, before removing her handcuffs, the metal chaffing against his skin as she tightens it into place.

He remains silent as she leads him to the radiator, snapping the other loop against the pipes, the steel clattering against iron as he stoops to his feet. If this will give her some modicum of comfort, so be it; he's willing to do anything if it will make her more receptive to his offer.

She turns away from him briefly, depositing the kitchen knife onto the counter, before rounding upon him, her arms tightly cradled against her chest.

"Give me the bible."

The betrayal shines brightly in her eyes as she snaps back at him, vehement fury roiling through her voice, her words as sharper than any blade. She won't abandon hope, even though she knows it's futile; despite her bravado, he can sense the fear that lurks in her voice.

How can she deny him when she knows of the prophecy?

Ichabod Crane will drag her into the very depths of hell and will leave her there to rot, so long as it means he can achieve what he desires. He doesn't care about her, he has never cared about her; why can't she understand that?

"None of them love you like I do Abbie."

She reels at his confession, blinking away the words, as if they could simply vanish. He feels sick, his skin hot and clammy against the radiator, her reaction cutting him down to the quick.

A part of him has always expected this, but to see it brought to life…

"Andy…" She begins hesitantly, her brow furrowing as her voice falters, as if searching for a gentler way to lessen the blow.

"No, I don't want to hear you say it." Even to his own ears, his voice sounds sullen and petulant, though he firmly rejects her gaze; he doesn't need or desire her pity.

She stays silent for a moment, before withdrawing her cellphone, her fingers punching in the familiar digits as she turns away from him; a grave mistake, one that will undoubtedly come back to haunt her. His wrists snap easily as he takes a moment to adjust the fragmented bones and tendons, before sliding out of the handcuffs, his footsteps a mere whisper as he vanishes out of the door.

Somehow, her reaction makes his decision easier.

 **XxX**

Her scent is heavy in the air.

His thoughts are gnarled, twisted together with swirls of sanguine and nightshade, the grace of a predator haunting his every movement. He knows nothing of remorse, no longer envies the living; he is now a creature borne of singular purpose:

To end the Witnesses.

He bounds across a clearing where the sod is freshly turned, a gaping maw rent into the earth at the edge of the field, the scent of smoke rising on the wind. Without hesitation, he descends into the ground, adrenaline coursing through his veins when he catches sight of the motley trio, shock illuminating their features when the catch sight of him.

His lips twist up into a fey grin as he descends upon them, magic as old as time coursing through his veins.

Ichabod is the first to attack, lunging at him, his nails scrabbling at his side for purchase; he lifts one arm and swats him away, as easily as one might a fly. Fitting really, as the colonial man has always been the incessant whining in her ear, drawing her further away from him; he has no place in this battle.

The older male wisely distances himself as Abbie backs into a corner, her keen eyes searching for anything she might be able to levy to her advantage; doesn't she realize the tides have already shifted?

As he advances upon her, she seems to be at war with herself, her voice echoing as she tries to reason with him; as if she ever cared about _him_.

With a sigh, she draws out her gun, her finger firmly wrapped around the trigger; though each bullet bursts through his skin, it does little to impede his advancement. A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he wrenches the weapon away from her grasp and tosses it aside, the tempo of her heart a tattoo against her skin as he wraps his hand around her throat.

"Andy…"

Her cheeks are tinged cerulean as she tries to scramble away from his grasp, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips when he tightens his hold, the whites of her eyes widening as the realization of her own mortality dawns upon her.

He could end this so easily…

Tears threaten to spill from her lashes as she draws in breaths, rapid, reedy bursts of air trying valiantly to inflate her lungs, only to draw up short. Her voice is drawn, barely the ghost of a whisper as she tries to dissuade him, before a withered hand wraps itself around his arm.

His grip slackens.

Reality pierces through the fugue, memories dancing like sparks across his mind, and for a moment, the shroud of the demon is broken. The sight of his hand wrapped around her throat revolts him, her flesh still humid against his skin as he draws away from her, collapsing back onto his knees in his haste.

His stomach churns as he realizes the full ramifications of his bargain. As long as he exists, he is bound, in blood and spirit, to fulfill his contract and serve as a vessel, to cast out his master's will as his own. Even in the haze of fury, he had never imagined…

He swallows, feeling the prickle of magic clawing against his skin, before turning his gaze back to her.

"End this, Abbie."

 **XxX**

Time has lost all meaning.

Abbie doesn't know whether she's been trapped in here for days or years; every second feels as though it spans the breadth of eternity and something inside her shrinks, the warmth in her chest growing colder with every passing second. The shadows of her memories putter away in the background, singing songs about demons and witnesses, of things that have been and have yet to be.

But they never stop singing.

She wants to ask what will happen if they stop, what will happen if Moloch finds them again, but every time she goes to ask, they just smile and usher her back to the window, their skirts whirling around her. The same desolate expanse of scenery greets her; dark, stormy skies and jagged forests surround them, all curtained underneath an ethereal veil of shadow.

Sometimes, if she listens closely, she can hear the screams.

She learns to stop asking questions after that. Whatever they know, whatever she knows, won't be divulged any time soon. Perhaps it is better this way; after all, mortals never were meant to know of the hereafter or of the shade between worlds, were they?

The cries only grow louder.

She tries to block it out, rocking herself and humming every nursery rhyme she can remember, but nothing seems to be able to drown out the sound. On these days, Abbie curls up in the corner and cries, tears spilling down her cheeks until exhaustion takes over.

She has to escape.

The window seems the most logical place to start; the drop is high, but if she can shatter it, she'll be one step closer to freedom. She picks up one of the chairs and tosses it against the glass; it bounces off, falling back to floor as helplessly as a ragdoll. A cry wrenches itself free from her throat, and in her desperation, she launches herself at every wall, fingers clawing down the plaster until they crack and bleed, leaving bright, crimson trails in their wake.

Nothing ever gives way.

Abbie's hopes have long since dwindled away, leaving her empty and numb, desperate for escape. If they were ever going to return, if _he_ was ever going to return, wouldn't it have happened by now? Or is the prophecy true and is this the betrayal it spoke of? She had willing sacrificed herself in hopes of breaking it; perhaps her actions have only sealed her fate.

The girls stop singing.

Her head jolts up and she sees a face that is not her own, one she believes she might have seen in some distant memory. Dark, inky veins crisscross over sallow skin, his lips curled up in what once may have been a pleasant smile, she thinks. Her hand trembles as she goes to reach out, before stopping herself, cradling her fingers to her chest.

There is no warmth here.

His eyes search hers and she feels bare underneath his gaze; he acts as if he knows her, but no one knows her, not anymore. After a moment, he emits a small chuckle, one that both frightens her and intrigues her and it teases forth the memory of someone else, whose laugh had been familiar and comfortable and oh, how she misses that...

Something inside her breaks.

Her lashes are wet when she closes her eyes, drawing in on herself. This is just another illusion, another figment of her imagination that will vanish once she wakes; she pinches herself and gasps, eyes blinking open. His smile is still there and relief washes over her as he extends his hand towards her, his fingers curling open; she hesitates, eyes wavering uncertainly over him, before accepting his grasp.

"I'm going to save you, Abbie."


End file.
